Tuesday, March 31, 2009

Calorie counts at fast-food restaurants

As soon as I beer-belly up to the counter of McDonalds/Burger King/Wendy’s/Chick-Fil-A/Jack in the Box/Popeye's/Arby’s/Taco Time/Taco Bell/Taco del Mar, I know I’m eating a week’s worth of calories. As soon as I turn into a drive-thru, the die has been cast. Why you gotta be reminding me of a truth that’s self-evident? A Big Mac tastes like a heart attack-in-training; I’m pretty sure that I’m not getting beta-carotene and antioxidants from the special sauce.

I know I’m a tub o' lard.

I know I’m killing myself.

And above all, I know I need to jam this signage in the deep-fat fryer.

In Seattle, Mickey D’s and its fatass-inducing friends are required to post nutrition information (i.e. calorie counts) on menu boards in the restaurant. Some even print it on the receipts.

Um, I already bought what you're selling; do I really want to remember the not-so-happy meal I put down my piehole when I’m recording the receipt in Quicken?

Roy Kroc is rolling over in his grave, and not because of acid reflux. It’s time to rip open the ketchup packets, become a BK Basquiat, and create a bit of avant-garde graffiti on the menu boards. Receipts and pamphlets will be gathered up, dipped in the fryer, slathered in mayo, brushed with Brazier flavor, rolled in a tortilla, covered in salsa and sour cream, and sandwiched between two waffles. Actually, that sounds pretty good. Maybe I should just hoover the nutrition information; anything goes down easy with a buttload of high-cal condiments. And this treat is guilt-free, as I suspect my rage is burning more than a few calories.

(Photo: www.gamingring.com)

Monday, March 30, 2009


My loathing of this wretched bloom probably started in high school, when cheerleaders would sell them as a fundraiser around Valentine’s Day and Homecoming. The more flowers you received from cupids who could do the splits, the more popular you clearly were. And the popular bitches would carry those stinky stalks around from class to class.

Let’s just say, I did not have a bouquet stuck out of my Trapper Keeper.

Now, I hate the crapass carnation for all new reasons. It stinks. You can often buy the dyed blue variety at gas stations. Classy. It fills in for better buds at funeral homes and the race track. As a boutonniere, it becomes a ball of blech.

Carnations are supposed to represent fascination and distinction. They can have the distinction of being the first flower to fascinate at my fist. The time is nigh to mulch these asshole flowers into a pulp. And after putting the petal to the metal of my rototiller, I am happy to report that I now only smell success.

Baby’s breath, you're on notice. If you know what's good for you, you'll steer clear.

(Photo: flowerstopetersburg.com)

Friday, March 27, 2009


Three hours into a flight from hell, a Meerkat Gang Sculpture is starting to look pretty damn good. In fact, I don’t know how I ever lived without it. What's happening to me? Who am I?

The trip starts out okay: I’ve taken my Dramamine, and I’ve got snacklets, an aisle seat, plenty of reading material, my iBook, and some sort of craft project.

Then it all goes to shit.

The seats are too small to pull out my laptop or knit, let alone stretch my legs. The guy next to me smells like 1969 and the overhead vent is not assuaging the stench. The three year old behind me is taking great delight in kicking my seatback while crying without pause. I plow through my rag mags in short order. Clearly, there’s nothing left to live for…so I pull out the SkyMall catalog.

When, at 30,000 feet, I think I've hit rock bottom, things gets worse. I feel very 1993 Franklin Covey as I contemplate a framed print of a Zen garden. Ooh, where do I swipe my card? Oh wait, here’s a light therapy system! For only $399.95, I can make my frown turn upside down in rainy Seattle! A plantar fasciitis kit? Now you’re just freakin’ my shit out, SkyMaul—you’re reaching into my soul and uncovering my deepest desires. In fact, I think I just might— Holy fuck, a watch winder! If only there was an automatic piehole feeder and a bum wiper, I could just throw in the towel.

Before I give up on life and go down the battery-operated rabbit hole, I need to do one last thing: unleash a can of whoop ass on this twisted love child of QVC and Lillian Vernon. A few repurposed items should do the trick.

I don a Doolittle & Loafmore sweatshirt and LED lighted safety glasses and get to business. I collect a plane's worth of DieMall catalogs in a NFL hammock. I heap them into a copper fire pit and crumple up a wall-size crossword puzzle as tinder. With my Swarovski lighter, I torch the hot mess. No number of indoor hoses and plant waterers can help you now. Go back from whence you came, demon catalog, and take Hammacher Schlemmer and its schtupid name with you.

But leave the snow cone cart.

Thursday, March 26, 2009

Penis names

Big Daddy, Cock Hudson, Unihorn, Richard Dixon, Carl, One-Eyed Willie, Casanova, Sir Lancelot, Ralph.

You see where I'm going with this. If you’re a dude, chances are good that you've dubbed your dick.

Ever since I read Forever… by Judy Blume in junior high, I’ve been aware that guys have a penchant for naming their junk. I can appreciate the package as much as the next girl, I just don't need to be on a first-name basis with it.

I’ve got a few names for your Johnson, Junior, and none of them are found in the Big Book of Baby Names. Your little Richard doesn’t have a birth certificate, it doesn’t have a separate heartbeat, and it doesn’t merit a name. While my lady bits are remarkable, I’m not christening them and requesting a Social Security Number. They are much-loved, and yet remain nameless.

Your constant cumpanion needs to be put in its place, namely your drawers. And I know just the thing to turn Voldemort's Wand into He Who Shall Not Be Named.

Say hello to my little friend. Its name is Left Fist and it's ready to, uh, whack these upstarts into global amnesia anonymity. A penis by any other name would sound as beat.

(On a related note, if you're a chick who has given a pet name to your puss, belly up to the bar for your own cocktail of hurt.)

(Photo: dorridgecc.org.uk)

Wednesday, March 25, 2009

Doctors who go by their first names

I know that we are living in an exciting age, where everything is becoming democratized, and the playing field is being leveled. But call me crazy, I want my president to be WAY smarter than me and I want to be slightly intimidated by my physician or my date with the PhD.

Use your last name, for fuck’s sake! Print it on your business card, use it in your talk show title, own it.

Even Doctor Doom goes by his last name (and, come to think of it, so does Doc Ock in his own fashion). He may be a costumed villain but that dude has decorum (and admittedly, a bad-ass last name).

It works my last nerve that these doctors use their first names to appear approachable and likable. Homey don't play that. I don’t want to let my guard down and place myself in a target-rich environment, Quick-Draw McGraw. I do want to draw a bullseye on your never-ending forehead and use that as a makeshift punching bag. Dr. Drew, while I respect your curriculum vitae, your moniker gets me so agitated that I want to stuff a handful of Quaaludes down my piehole just to calm the fuck down. Dr. Laura, your name does make me want to open up…and share my Zippo with your physiology PhD diploma. Dr. Ruth, I'll give you a pass this time. You're the shit.

Don't even get me started about Judge Judy.

(Photo: baldiness.com)

Tuesday, March 24, 2009

Horror movie trailers

I’m home, minding my own business. The front door is locked, the windows secure. I’m wearing my jammies.

And then, unexpectedly, I’m violated.

By my television.

I might be innocently watching the nightmare that is the Rock of Love Bus or a grisly surgery on House when the show cuts to a commercial. Sigh. Instead of a Cover Girl or Comcast ad, it’s a goddammed horror movie trailer. A young girl is running in the woods, presumably away from a psychopath or the not-so-Steadicam that’s hunting her down. In just two minutes, I hear a lot of screaming and I see duct tape, knives, guns, menace, sweaty faces that haven’t been shaved in days, lots of moody lighting, fear, choppy editing, a microwave…

My heart is racing and I’m seriously disturbed.

It's coming from inside the house.

Like Drew Barrymore in the opening sequence of Scream, I can’t escape. It’s bad enough that Friday the 13th forever screwed my chances for a fear-free camping trip, but now I have to be afraid every time I reach for the remote. The obvious solution is to quickly turn the channel or turn off the TV before I punch it in the cathode ray tube. Fuck that. These trailers make me mad as hell and I'm not going to take it any more.

It's time to turn the tables on my tormentors. I need to strap on my hockey mask, pull on a red-and-black striped sweater, pick up my hand saw/ice pick/mallet/meat hook/rusty farm tool and…oh heck, who am I kidding? I can't go serial killer on these trailers' asses, as they are digital and as elusive as Jack the Ripper. Unless I infiltrate a movie trailer producer's studio and wipe the hard drive, crash the servers, and destroy the FTP site, my hands are tied (but not in a Hostel kind of way). Wait a minute, I bet that demon chicklet in need of a deep conditioner and a comb from The Ring could help. Samara could crawl back into the TV and magnetize anything that triggers my gag reflex.

Meanwhile, I'll watch a Clean House marathon on the Style network and mute the cheesy freecreditreport.com commercials. That kind of horror I can stomach any time.

Monday, March 23, 2009

Matthew McConaughey’s armpits

Reputedly, McConNoWay has not worn deodorant in decades. Are you serious, you bongo-playing Bozo? Do you think we’ll be so enchanted by your sap-dripping drawl or leathery good looks that we’ll lose the use of our other senses? Like smell, for instance?

Aw, HELL no.

Kate Hudson supposedly asked surfer dude to roll on a crystal deodorant to ban his natural McConaughmusk while filming Fool’s Gold. He declined. I may not know how to lose a guy in 10 days but I do know how to lose a gal in 10 minutes, and it has something to do with B.O.

J.K. Livin' claims a good diet and showers contribute to his fresh scent. I’m sure you smell like butterflies and rainbows, Texas Tea, especially after a long run with one of your bromantic workout partners. I’m betting that Lance Armstrong is breathing out of his mouth during that last mile.

I suspect that designers aren’t keen on loaning red-carpet suits to him, either. If he wants to sit in his Airstream and stew in his own juices, that’s his business. But when a movie star takes up permanent residence in Funkytown, it’s time to take action.

I wish McKindahippie would take a tip from Duckie in Pretty in Pink, who at one point sniffed his pits and asked, “Do I offend?” No, sweet Duckie, you smell like Designer Imposter Drakkar Noir. Wooderson, on the other hand, does not smell all right, all right, all right, all right.

And because of that, he’s subject to my reign of ire. I want to make contact with Pigpen, driving his stanky ass through a carwash for a wash and buff. Better yet, I’d like to grab the biggest hose I can find, a bucket of industrial-strength cleaner—Dr. Bronner isn’t strong enough for this job—and scrub him down Silkwood-style. I’d roll on multiple coats of deodorant and force him into a shirt with a pocket so I could tuck a car air freshener in there for added measure. There’s no stench on my watch.

(Photo: unclestinky.wordpress.com)

Friday, March 20, 2009


I’m not a fan of shorts on men in general but when they are jean shorts (or jorts), I really doth protest. Often they are pleated, sometimes they are acid wash or faded, they can be hip-hop long or wash-the-car knee-length. Whatever the case, jorts all have one thing in common: they are nine kinds of wrong.

I don’t mind cut-offs, I have to say. They aren’t trying to be something they’re not. They own their trashiness and I find that appealing (except when they are so short on celebutards that the pockets hang below the “hem” line).

What I don’t find appealing are jorts—hemmed and intended to be worn as shorts from the get—that are paired with a tucked-in polo shirt and a cell phone clipped to the belt. This isn’t the summer version of business casual, Stef, it’s business casualty. If you’re burning up, reach for some flat-front khakis or cargo shorts, for the love of the fashion gods. If you dig on denim, pull on a pair of jeans and suck up your internal temperature. Choose a lane, make a Sophie’s choice: Jeans or shorts. You don’t get to have both and live to tell about it.

As spring gets under way, I expect to see more and more of these denim abominations burning my retinas. I think the best way to cure you of your penchant for St. John’s Bay resort wear is to whack your exposed knee with a 5-iron and send you to the pro shop for an ice pack and some more appealing clothing. Don’t worry; I’ll recycle those jorts for you: I’ll cut them off and send them to Britney or Jessica.

(Photo: denimexpress.com)

Thursday, March 19, 2009


Outside of the reservation and 1979, a dreamcatcher is just plain dumb. Hung on a rearview mirror or as living room art, it deserves to be punched in its sinewy face. What made you think this was a good idea? Did you powwow with a shaman in a sweat lodge? Were you trippin’ on peyote with Val Kilmer?

While I was curiously drawn to the feathered roach clips on sale at the Berrien County Youth Fair back in the 80s, I backed away. I didn’t smoke the wacky tobackey and my name wasn’t Stands with a Pan-Indian Tchotchke in her Fist (although that would have been so fucking rad). Even then, I knew dreamcatchers sucked it hard.

Dreamcatchers were traditionally hung over a bed to protect papooses from nightmares. Um, sorry to break it to you, you woo-woo kookaloo, but you just conjured up the bad dream that is me. While listening to some sweet nature sounds with a backing woodlands flute, I am going to tie a stick to your southwestern Spirograph and thrash you within an inch of your life.

The American Indian wasn’t crying over pollution in that 1970s ad; he saw the writing—and your ridiculous dreamcatcher—on the wall.

(By the way, I think women should start calling their vag their dreamcatcher. Think about it...)

(Photo: wikipedia)

Wednesday, March 18, 2009

Sidewalk hogs

When people ask me if I’d rather have the superpower of invisibility or flight, I always go with flight.

Apparently, I’m already invisible.

At least, it seems that way when I’m strolling through my neighborhood and spy two or three chuckleheads walking toward me. Talking to each other, they don’t give up an INCH of space. They don’t acknowledge my existence. They wouldn’t know if I was tricked out in fetish gear or pointing a flamethrower directly at them. Even a fiendish mime would escape their attention. As these fuckers approach, it becomes a game of sidewalk chicken and I always lose. At the last minute, I veer out of their way, usually tripping into a tree bed or slamming into a building.

No, excuse me.

Far be it from me to interrupt, disturb, or derail you, you self-absorbed dickwads with crapass peripheral vision.

Let’s not forget about the strollers. The last time I walked around a nearby lake, I was dodging mommies and strollers who had greedily spread out across both the foot and wheel lanes. Believe me, I understand these gals' need to get some sun and girl talk during a walk. But let me tell you, they are tough mamas. Infantry units could have used these chicks on their front lines, as they never break formation. I could practically see the tumbleweed as I stared down a fence of Bugaboos and estrogen at high noon. Of course, I wound up looking like a total dick when I tried to break on through to the other side.

It’s time to take action! I’m staging a silent protest and I’m asking you to join me. When you encounter a line of people coming at you, stop. Stand still. Break their synchronized stride and make them flow around you. You can pick up the pace after these wastes of space walk on by. If they bump into you, well, I think you know what to do. You saw The Karate Kid.

Sweep the leg.

(Photo: friendshippoemsonline.com)

Tuesday, March 17, 2009


I just got my hair hacked off on Saturday and I’m still wiggin’ out, I’m not gonna lie. I spent enough time in the eighties trying to rock a “bi-level” ’do to know that my cowlicks are not kind to short cuts (and as you can see at right, fifth grade is not kind to anyone).

My bangs are a constant challenge. The left side of my bangs, if left to its own devices, scrunches itself into a sort of zigzag pattern. Harry Potter may have his scar to bear, but I have a fucking lightning bolt lock of hair to suffer on a daily basis. Living in Seattle, this and other cowlicks roam free.

My brothers called me Heifer Head when I was a kid (Chris and John were real charmers) but now I suspect it’s not because I was over my fighting weight. It’s because my scalp was catnip to cows far and wide. Take the back of my head, for instance. Swirls and whorls give me a, um, fullness at my crown while pieces at my nape curve and peek out from the back of my neck, taunting me in the mirror with their everlasting defiance. Now that the back is shorn, I have a cockscomb of hair rising at the crown and fresh shoots sprouting from my nape.

Fuck me.

My spirit is strong even if my follicles are weak, so I'm bringing out the styling paste, smothering, strangling, and smacking down those asshat cowlicks until they lie down and submit to my Bumble & Bumble.

Thank God I have a lot of hats.

Monday, March 16, 2009

Joaquin Phoenix’s facial hair

Finally, I know what happened to Jimmy Hoffa, all those lost socks, and Lindsay Lohan’s acting career. They’re hidden in Joaquin Phoenix's facial forest.

I actually cringed when his own people turned on him, mocking his Letterman meltdown (see below) at the Academy Awards and the Independent Spirit Awards. This is an Oscar-nominated actor, folks! Don’t rip him a new one. Wake Rip Van Weenie from his somnambulant trance and throw him into rehab, therapy, or one-on-one rap lessons with Jay Z, another “retired” artist.

But first things first.

I don’t care if this is a hoax or a full-on psychotic break. Casey Affleck needs to put down the video camera, strap Bigfoot into a barber’s chair, and fucking mow that lawn. That’s what friends are for. If someone doesn't take care of this Chia Chump, I'm going to rototill that crop myself. Better yet, I'll grab some pruning shears and start shaping his fur into something befitting such a massive tool, say a large penis topiary.

(Photo: L.A. Times, Matt Sayles/Associated Press)

Friday, March 13, 2009


Do I really need to elaborate? Really?

Well, if you insist.

These blanc buffoons place themselves in my line of ire the minute they rock the whiteface. Dammit to hell, Marcel Marceau! What have you done?

Riddle me curious but what compels a kookaloo (in French, kookalou) to tumble down the rabbit hole and sign up for a mime class? Did he have a grandparent who always seemed to have trouble with his invisible umbrella on windy days? Did she see a Doug Henning special in the 70s that made her hot for French sailor shirts? Does he think miming will lend him a certain je ne sais quoi? I do know what. Il est stupide.

Mimes need to be rounded up and herded into a box in front of the Centre Pompidou. Tag these douchegoofs with a black-and-white computer chip. And if anyone tries to escape the box, imaginary or otherwise, I’m going to throw back a pain au chocolat before going un peu Marquis de Sade on the rogue clown by choking him with his fey neckerchief. There won’t be a need to draw a sad clown teardrop near his right eye. Those tears will be real, mon ami.

Clowns may be creepy, but mimes are the fiends who moonwalk through my nightmares.

(Photo: mimethegap.com. Seriously.)

Thursday, March 12, 2009

Year-round Christmas decorations

As we move into mid-March, we—like Julius Caesar before us—are tipped off to beware the Ides of March, but I think we need to keep an eye out for the real killer: Christmas shit that hasn’t been taken down.

The holidays are usually a disappointment so why prolong the agony well into the new year? Do you enjoy jacked-up electric bills? Do you get some sort of sick satisfaction by turning your house into a giant nightlight for your cul de sac? Does the Christmas spirit live within you and your candy cane cardigan 365 days a year? Are you simply a lazy fuck?

You took down the inflatable snow globe, you say? Shut your effin' elfin trap. You've still got a sleigh parked on the roof and a flocked tree peeking out of the picture window. You might as well stick a red-and-green sign in your front yard that says, "I deserve to get run over by a reindeer."

Whatever the case, let me spell it out: Strands of icicle lights, while I stomach them for a five-week period in November and December, are not mood lighting. Tinsel is not to be trifled with after the first week in January. Send the holiday sweaters packing (in mothballs). And above all, a Christmas tree, real or artificial, is not a houseplant. After the holidays, it's an eyesore.

If you let your figgy pudding freak flag fly year-round, here's how I'm going to join in your celebration. I'm going to repurpose the little drummer boy's snare drum and smash it over your head. I might grind up a little mistletoe and slip it into your eggnog. And if your house looks like Santa's workshop and crocuses are blooming outside, I'm going fill your stocking with lumps of coal and get Kris Kringle on your ass. Ho, ho, ho, motherfucker.

Wednesday, March 11, 2009

Baggage claim cock block

Are you way more important than everyone else?
Is your luggage made of solid gold?
Are you smuggling someone across the border in a steamer trunk without air holes?
Did your water just break?

If you answered “yes” to any of these questions, fine. You suck dead bear but I’ll give you a pass at the baggage claim carousel. If you answered “no,” you must need me to fly my fist in a northerly direction toward your face.

Lemme tell you why.

When a flight lands, I try to hightail it out of the airport. Sometimes I'm forced to check a bag, so I haul ass from my arrival gate, only to find myself jockeying for position around the baggage carousel while I wait for my Samsonite to tumble down the conveyor belt. You’d think I’d be so flippin' happy to be off my flight and out of its Lilliputian seats that I’d just be content to feel my limbs again. Uh, no.

The flightmare continues, as I elbow my way through chuckleheads in pleated khakis or gamey business suits with phones clipped to their belts, parents who are wrangling several unruly kids hopped up on M&Ms, and reunited couples engaged in serious tonsil hockey. What do these penis pumps have in common? They are in my way and irking my shit. Who the fuck knows if my bag made it to my destination, since I can’t see the conveyor belt, let alone get to it. Asshats of every kind queue up against the carousel, forming a Hands Across American Airlines bond that I can’t break through. When a waste of space scores a bag, he doesn’t remove it from the fray. No, he usually sets it beside himself to create an additional hurdle for me to trip over/kick the shit out of when I finally spy my bag amidst the golf clubs, checked car seats, and floral tapestry suitcases littering the conveyor belt.

Then there are the families.

Just a suggestion, but maybe you could have a family meeting over by the Smart Cartes and designate ONE parent to retrieve your bags. Again, it’s just a thought and if you’d just rather stick together in a line like the von Trapp Family Singers, so be it. Just be aware that I’m going to use my carry-on bag and my laptop case to box your ears like a monkey rocking the cymbals. Find your roller bag now, bitch. I don't think that red ribbon you tied onto the handle is gonna help you.

(Photo: bridgeandtunnelclub.com)

Tuesday, March 10, 2009

Tools who don't believe in TV

I've been on loads of first dates which ultimately proved to be the last date as well. None of these guys were sociopaths or pock-marked or suffering from acute halitosis. Some were inconsiderate and some were cheap, sure, but none of them were bad guys per se (the bad boys usually get a second date).

No, my biggest beef with many of my dates was that they didn't own a television.

They weren't moving cross-country or suffering from a broken cathode ray tube. It may seem inconceivable, but there are folks in the world who don't believe in TV.

Bend over and take a deep breath. It helps the dizziness.

I watch more than my share of TV. Rock of Love Bus is not for everyone, I grant you. But for me, being on the pop culture superhighway is part of what defines me, as well as what educates and entertains me. Watching TV provides me with conversational currency. What in the world do these pretentious fucks have to talk about? Seriously?

Without a TV, flatscreen or otherwise, how can you stay apprised of Bret Michaels' bandannas and hair extensions? Or watch Joaquin Phoenix mumble and sasquatch his way through Letterman? Or get unexpectedly sucked into a Ken Burns' documentary or Shark Week? Or bear witness to the majesty of an inauguration or Aretha's inaugural hat?

You can't.

I'm not talking about the hi-tech nerd who streams stuff on his laptop or catches the latest episode of Flight of the Conchords on an iPhone. No, he's exempt from my rage. He isn't throwing the baby out with the RGB bathwater. No, I'm talking about the cappuccino intellectual who stuffs a tattered copy of Proust into an NPR totebag while listening to Philip Glass and sporting a fedora.

In other words, a massive tool.

If fuckwits such as this aren't going to watch The Office or Olbermann, here's how I think they should pass their colorless days:
  • Alternately whack themselves in the face with a first edition of Sex and the City and poke themselves in the eye with the heel of a Manolo.
  • Pour a steaming double espresso over their heads.
  • Listen to the Doogie Howser M.D. theme song on a continuous loop.
  • Electrical tape their eyes open and force them to watch warnings from the Emergency Broadcast System.
  • Jump off the GE Building at 30 Rockefeller Plaza.
  • And my personal favorite: Hop in a bucket and volunteer as chum during Shark Week.

Monday, March 9, 2009

David Caruso’s neck

This neck is a world-class wuss wagon, as it can’t hold up Caruso’s leprechaun head while it’s attempting to emote. His wizened mug clearly has no acting chops on its own, so it relies on a droopy neck to add gravitas to every CSI: Miami scene. Whenever dude is about to inflict some verbal damage on a sweaty Rico SuavĂ©, he puts his hands on his ass-clown hips and lowers his head. You know what’s coming. Staring at the ground, clearly unable to straighten his cervical vertebrae, he mutters something to the effect of “Gonna get you, sucka,” pulls off his sunglasses, and looks up—lips pursed with disapproval—as the future ass candy is hauled off to the big house.

Lift your head, jackwipe! Do you have scoliosis? Did you leave your back brace back in 10th grade? Did your trapezius muscle atrophy from looking for spare change on the ground during those lean years after you left NYPD Blue? Is the South Beach sun too damn bright for your photophobic Irish-Italian eyes? Do you think you’ll turn to stone if you look someone, anyone, in the eye? Are you begging for a wicked case of whiplash?

That last question is rhetorical since I’m going to serve up my own cocktail of hurt on this puny neck. I’m going to whip it right round, baby, right round. I’m doing it—and the body it belongs to—a favor, since the resulting neck brace can only improve Caruso’s posture and dramatic posturings.

(Photo: www.insidesocal.com)

Friday, March 6, 2009

Shlubs with hot chicks

The list is long and my temper is short.

The King of Queens, According to Jim (According to me, Jim Belushi should maybe join Courtney Thorne-Smith at a gym once in a while), Still Standing (Am I supposed to buy the coupling of Jami Gertz and the lovable but chunky Sad Sack from The Full Monty? Talk about square pegs!), Grounded for Life, Everybody Loves Raymond

Don’t presume to speak for me, you Hollywood asswipes. I don’t love Raymond. Matter of fact, I suspect that there are a lot of foxy birds who find him anything but lovable. How such a whiny schlub ever scored Patricia Heaton is a mystery understood only by TV execs and a handful of Operating Thetan level 8 Scientologists. Humor goes a loooongggg way in my book, but it doesn’t mean that these doughnut-scarfing doofuses shouldn’t also work on their navel-gazing tendencies, hit a treadmill, and eat a salad every now and again.

Here's a novel idea: create a show for me that features a full-figured, ribald babe in a juicy marriage with some smokin' piece of ass like Jason Lewis. That show, I'd watch. That show, I'd love.

Meanwhile, instead of beating these guys senseless (it's not their fault they were cast in sitcoms that suspend disbelief), I'm going to Duct-Tape them all together and make myself a nice cushy bean bag chair, fit for a queen and suitable for all my TV viewing needs. Who needs a BarcaLounger when you've got Kevin James?

(Photo: www.xanga.com)

Thursday, March 5, 2009

Deceptively bad produce

Scene: Kitchen. Mouth-watering smells are emanating from all corners of the room. In the center, an impeccably dressed, radiant hostess prepares to cut into an avocado. Guests are due to arrive in minutes…

Ten seconds later: "Are you #$%^&*$#Q@% kidding me?" The hostess's face has now contorted itself into a mask of pure hatred as she surveys the decay that has reared its fugly head on her cutting board.

The avocado is rotten.

As you can imagine, this romantic comedy just became tragic.

When the farmers' market is closed during the winter months, I do all of my shopping at my local grocery store. I occasionally hanker for a vegetable or fruit so I take my time in the produce department, thumping, sniffing, and pinching, trying to suss out freshness.

Apparently, I suck at this.

I pick out avocadoes that seem destined for my delicious guacamole, only to cut into them and find them rotten. I peel an orange and find it devoid of any juiciness. Tomatoes, watermelon, the not-so-juicy fruits go on. Don't even mention a mealy apple in my presence.

Aside from the initial disappointment when cutting into them, these douchebag foodstuffs cut into my budget. That jicama wasn't cheap. I invested in that fucker and it totally hosed me. And it's not always convenient to try to gather up the putrescent mess and return it. And if you do try, you look like a skinflint of assholian proportions.

A good piece of fruit can totally transform my day from mediocre to magical and conversely, one bad apple can spoil my lunch…and the whole damn day. I want payback. I want to beat black-hearted produce into a bloody pulp. I want to put that defective vegetable into a vegetative state. Then I'd be satisfied with the fruits of my labor.

(Photo: tummythoz.blogspot.com)

Wednesday, March 4, 2009

Grocery bag guilt

I’m a bad citizen of the earth. I admit it. When I walk out the door, I don’t always know that I’m going to wind up at the grocery store and consequently, I don't have any sort of bag, basket, bowl, or tray with which to carry my groceries home. So sue me (or charge me that annoying 5 cents per bag that you're itching to).

Many days, I hunker down writing at a coffee shop that’s a block from the QFC, so I should probably wise up and just stick a market bag in my laptop case.

But I don’t.

So I’m left feeling like a total hosebag when I skulk—bagless—toward the cashier to ring up my snacklets. I start rationalizing and apologizing to the employee, who really could care less if I need to take home one or eleven plastic bags.

My carbon footprint is pretty damn small even if my hooves are a healthy 9 1/2. I use public transportation, my pad is tiny, I turn out the lights, I recycle. (But draw the line at organic deodorants. Call me crazy, but I like to slather on chemicals to mask my natural funk.)

I use plastic bags as trash can liners (now that Mac Daddy is no longer with me, I unfortunately can’t use “kitty litter bags” as an excuse for my bag consumption) and paper bags for recycling but yet my guilt persists, which seriously pisses me off. Living in Seattle doesn't help: There are a lot of green assholes—grassholes—ready to pass judgment on me and my bag stash. I've seen the stink eye in the checkout line, believe me.

I have taken steps toward assuaging my guilt. Over the past year or so, I've accumulated quite a few market bags. I bought one I thought was cute at Eat Local, I was given a couple, and I even made an adorable bag as a craft project for a book. But do I remember to take them with me?


So I'm left with a wad of plastic bags and a serious resentment toward my inner grasshole. Something must be done, and I think you know what I'm talking about: dropkicking my grocery bag guilt to the curb…in a recycling bin, of course.

Tuesday, March 3, 2009

My black thumb

Once again, my black thumb has struck down a seemingly healthy plant in the prime of its doomed life. Less than a week ago, I bought a fragrant purple hyacinth to place in the prosperity corner of my desk (I’ve been knee-deep in feng shui this month). Let me repeat, I bought this flower less than seven days ago. Five days, to be exact. Check out the photo to see what it looks like today. You might not be able to tell but it's leaning WAY over and the blooms are turning brown, shriveling up, and it looks like it's on its death (flower)bed. The irony of it being in my "prosperity" corner is not lost on me, as I scramble to make rent.

Why am I surprised? I kill off all my plants in short order, whether it’s a pot of basil in my windowsill, or a row of cheery flowers in a plot outside my home. A rosemary topiary bit the dust over the holidays. It makes no difference how hardy or fragile the plants are, how much sun or shade they require, how much they need to be watered. I am the gardening grim reaper.

But being the optimist I clearly am, I continue to purchase potted plants. I figure they’ll last slightly longer than cut flowers. I figure wrong.

I’m like effing Rappaccini’s Daughter here. Just breathing on the blooms seems to cause them to shrivel up and die. Perhaps this is a clue as to why I’m single. Maybe I’ve killed off my first dates. Hmmm. Maybe it’s not them; maybe it really is me. Rats.

Monday, March 2, 2009

Keira Knightley’s mandible

Damn you, Keira Knightley, and your Oscar-nominated peaches-and-cream mug. You’d be pretty darn near perfect if it wasn’t for your hideous mandible.

Hate, actually.

Her jutting jaw bugs every time I see her laughing, smiling, talking, existing. She’s a fine actress but it’s hard for me to focus on her thespian abilities when all I can do is stare at the train wreck that is the bottom third of her face. Is she a ventriloquist’s dummy? Can’t she afford some reconstructive surgery? Put that thing away, for God’s sake. An unsuspecting Olsen twin could lose an eye.

Her massive mandible does have one redeeming quality, however—its protuberance makes it an easy target for my fist.

(photo: keirafans.net)